On a late Sunday afternoon,
During an intermission of a concert in Claremont
I rest on a stone park bench with an engraved dedication to
Young Mrs. Williams, "radiant, fearless, immortal."
I like trying on other lives:
What would it feel like to be radiant?
What would it be like to be an
Old lady who has been playing her cello
out of tune for the past forty years?
Or how would I live as Mabel Bridges who
- Her parents wrote on her portrait-
"from the bloom of her youth
passed into the unseen."
And what would it feel like to be my own daughter,
Ania, writing messages on birch bark
To be left on the bench
For fellow pilgrims
Who will not notice?